


Echoes Fall Off Me

by citron_presse



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citron_presse/pseuds/citron_presse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a hotel room with Anna, Kelly remembers the past as he fights to get through the present - all of it hurts. Set around the time of episode 1.08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes Fall Off Me

His dad liked the track.  Sometimes, Saturdays, he’d take Kelly with him, try and teach him about form and odds, slip him an extra few dollars allowance to place a bet.  None of that really mattered to Kelly, though.  What he really liked was getting to spend time with his dad; that, and the horses.

The last time they went, Kelly was ten, almost eleven.   Bordering on old enough for things to be getting complicated between him and his dad, but still young enough for both of them to put it aside for a day out.  There was this horse, young, big, dark brown, shiny, prancing up on his hind legs, built (his dad said) like a brick shithouse.  Kelly loved him, waited for him to race, held his breath until the horses burst out of the starting gate, followed him with wide eyes, fascinated, as he streaked out in the lead.  Then, two-thirds down the track, something changed, all the life seemed to drain out of him, he got slower and slower as, watching him, Kelly’s heart rate got faster and faster, his stomach sinking with dismay and the kind of undiluted sadness only a kid can really give in to.  The horse was still moving, but getting creamed by the others, even the no-hoper at the back.  That was when the jockey went crazy and started beating the crap out of the horse with his stick.  Kelly didn’t want to watch, but couldn’t take his eyes off the scene as the horse tried to run again, stumbled forwards a few steps, then just crumpled, all four legs giving way, until he lay still on the ground, the jockey losing his shit next to him.

To this day, he never found out what happened.  In hindsight, he figures, aneurysm, heart attack, maybe?  Back then, he couldn’t wrap his mind, his heart, around it; couldn’t get, couldn’t bear all that life, power, courage turning into defeat, slumped over in the dirt.

He cried, until his dad told him to shut the hell up, twice, emphasizing the second command with a swift smack to the side of the head.

They never went back to the track.  Kelly forgot about it, more or less.

Until now.

Anna’s moaning, delighted, squirming under him, hands pressed into the muscles of his chest like she’s pushing him away and drawing him in at the same time.  His shoulder’s killing him, and he thrusts harder, angry at the pain, angry at her, angry, desolate at this fucked up shit he’s gotten himself into and can’t get out of.

She opens her eyes and smiles:  she liked that, it felt good; who gives a shit how he feels?  “Harder,” she murmurs.  “Again.”

He obliges, because that’s why he’s here, right?  He’s so fucking tired, he’s so not into this – an understatement for revulsion that’s mostly with himself.   He wants this over with, but he’s never gonna fucking come, and she notices when he fakes (he’s crap at it, he never tried before her, it never even occurred to him!), hates it, likes to feel him climax, and she calls the shots, every time.  After all, he owes her.

In his mind, out of nothing, he sees the horse, falling, spent, done for; sees the jockey and the stick.  He inhales, feeling the tremor of his breath through his lungs and throat, the prickle in his eyes, his stomach sink.  She wanted it harder, right?  Because that’s the only way he’s getting to the end of this.  He slams into her, over and over, until relief floods through him, more numbed anguish than pleasure, and he’s finally done.

“Thanks.” She slides out from under him.  A few minutes pass, and she’s already almost dressed, just red lace panties to go, and she pulls them on slowly, smirking, playing with him and their shared, bleak awareness that he’s not turned on, not _anything_ anymore, but she has the power here.  She opens her bag, puts a package on the coffee table.  “Your pills,” she says.

He nods -- it’s all he can do right now without giving himself away – and rolls on his back.  When the hotel room door closes and there’s no one to hold back for, the tears start to fall.

He doesn’t really know what part of his life he’s crying for, just doesn’t understand how it ever turned out like this.

  



End file.
